


whatever our souls are made of

by angelsaves



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood, F/M, Podfic Welcome, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: Immediately after the events of the season finale, Ainsley wants Malcolm to take care of her.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	whatever our souls are made of

**Author's Note:**

> there isn't graphic violence, but there is absolutely the aftermath of such.

"What just happened?" Ainsley's voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears, like someone playing her on stage. She's not completely out of it — it doesn't take a trained investigator to put together an extremely, uh, perforated body, the knife she dropped, and the blood spatter slowly drying on her face and come up with the truth — but, well, it feels like the right thing to say. Instinct, maybe.

"It's okay," Malcolm says. "I'll take care of this." He tosses her a blanket, another of Mother's cashmere throws. "Dry off so you don't drip, then go upstairs and get in the bath."

"Okay." Malcolm knows how to deal with killers; Malcolm knows how to deal with Ainsley. She towels off as much of the blood as she can with the throw, then wraps it around herself and goes up to her bathroom.

When Malcolm finds her, some time later, Ainsley is sitting in the empty tub with her chin on her knees, fully dressed, including the cashmere throw. She used to wear them like togas and do fashion shows, insisting that Malcolm tell her how pretty she was in each iteration.

"Ainsley," he says. He always told her she was the prettiest girl in the world, in every blanket toga. "I thought — are you — do you need help?"

"Yes," Ainsley says. "I do."

"Okay," Malcolm says, gentle but not _too_ gentle; matter-of-fact, like this is normal. (Like either of them would know normal if it ran up and stabbed them in the chest.) 

He pushes up the sleeves of the sweater he took from Leonard, then carefully peels the blanket off of her shoulders. Ainsley can't help it: she shivers. 

"No," Malcolm mutters, "can't have that." Out loud, he adds, "We'll have to burn your clothes anyway," and turns on the faucet, scalding hot, the way she likes it.

"Thank you."

"Can you get your clothes off?" Malcolm asks.

She considers it, but when she tries to unbutton her blouse, her fingers won't work quite right. "Nope."

"All right." Malcolm strips off the sweater and his slacks, leaving him in dark gray boxer-briefs, and Ainsley lets him take off her wet clothes, leaving them in a lump at the other end of the tub. His tremor is almost imperceptible, even as he eases her trousers out from under her.

Then he hesitates. "The blood soaked through to your bra," he says apologetically.

"Well?" Ainsley looks up at him, meeting those big blue eyes. "I'm sure you know how they work."

He opens his mouth, then closes it. It's a perfectly ordinary back-closure bra, and it doesn't give him any trouble, even though he does it with his eyes shut.

"Malcolm," Ainsley says. "It's just me. We did this all the time when we were little."

Malcolm sighs. "We did," he says, "when we were little." He scoops up her wet clothes and puts them in a bucket. "Do you need me to help clean you up, too?"

"Yes."

He doesn't protest this time. "Scooch forward," he tells her, and he climbs into the tub behind her.

"Good thing we're loaded," Ainsley says, relaxing under her brother's gentle touch as he washes away the traces. "We both fit in the tub."

"Yeah, good thing," Malcolm says absently. He pours handfuls of water onto her head to rinse the soap and blood out of her hair, and it runs down her breasts in bubbly pinkish trails. He pauses, then — matter-of-fact again — washes them away too.

"Malcolm." Ainsley twists to look at him.

"Yes?"

She can't stand it anymore: she leans forward and kisses him softly on the mouth.

"Ainsley," he says, taking her shoulder in one hand, the side of her face in the other. "We can't. You're —"

Tears well up in her eyes. "Take care of me. Please?"

"Oh, God." Malcolm swipes his hair out of his eyes, making it stick up in wet spikes. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

With a soft splash, Ainsley turns the rest of the way around and climbs into Malcolm's lap. "Yes," she says, "you are."

"Oh, _God_ ," he says again, only this time, he sinks his hands into her hair and licks into her mouth, sloppy and filthy and exactly what she was angling for.

Ainsley knows her brother, so it's not a surprise that when she digs her manicured nails into the nape of his neck, he gasps against her lips and thrusts his hips upward; it is, however, a delight. "Ainsley," he says.

"Shh." She kisses him quiet, letting herself trail her hands down his chest: lean muscles, pale, fine covering of dark hair. Tugging on his chest hair makes him whine, but Malcolm is smart enough to muffle the sound in her throat. His stubble there feels incredible. She wants to feel it _everywhere_. "I want you to fuck me," she whispers into his hair.

"Let's — let's shower off and take this somewhere less blood-soaked," Malcolm says finally, quietly. "Can you stand?"

"If you help me." He's stronger than he looks, managing to heave her off of him and get to his feet at the same time. They peel off their soaked underwear and add it to the bucket. When Malcolm bends to pull the plug and turn on the shower, Ainsley admires the view, and when he turns back around, she admires it even more: big brother, _indeed._

Malcolm looks down at her, wet hair plastered to his face, his gaze so full of compassion that she wants to — she doesn't know what it makes her want to do. "We don't have to do anything except get clean," he says. "You can decide."

Ainsley sluices the last of the blood off herself and leans around him to turn off the shower. "I want," she says, " _you._ " She kisses him hard, trying to show him, and his hand on the small of her back is steadying, grounding.

"Okay," Malcolm says. He steps out of the tub, takes a fluffy towel from the heated rack, and proceeds to dry her off; when he takes his time about it, she knows she's won. She rewards him for his decision with another kiss. "Let me get dry too," he says wryly.

"If you insist," she says. He dries himself much more quickly, and then lets her take him by the hand and pull him into her bedroom. "Come on, get on the bed."

"Yes, ma'am!" He's clearly trying for light and carefree, but she can hear the wanting underneath as he sits on the edge, leaning back on his hands, cock standing at attention.

Fortunately, Ainsley is prepared. She climbs onto the bed next to him, reaching between the mattress and the wall to pull out the cuffs there, and snaps one onto each of her brother's unresisting wrists. "You like this?" she asks conversationally.

"Ainsley," he says reproachfully. "You know I do."

"Good. I know they're not as fancy as your set, but —"

"It doesn't matter."

"I know." Ainsley braces herself on his broad shoulders, still a little damp, and straddles his lap, sinking down onto his cock with a sigh.

"Oh, God, Ainsley," Malcolm breathes. "Kiss me. Please."

How can she deny a request like that? Ainsley pretends to consider it, setting a rhythm with her hips, and then cups his tilted-up face in her hands and kisses him, deep and lush and thorough. He's open to her like this. She feels like she could reach in and pull out his heart right through his throat.

Not that she would.


End file.
